The Rise of the Trafficker
The whole world knew what had happened. It wasn't even a surprise to them. Men of power and those with the lust for more, pressed buttons and issued orders,
It wasn't a cataclysm as feared, but a death by inches. Tactical nuclear weapons had carved up the world and governments fell. Regional warlords sprang up to seize control of whatever they could take with their own hands. But they were hampered with the lack of fuel, energy and as infrastructure fractured and fell into the dust. The warlords, many of whom had been restrained by the few level heads that had survived the upheavals had taken the bold step to remove the spectre of gun. Tens of millions were decommissioned, destroyed and their ammunition boiled in vast metal pots, rendering them inert. Only a few knew of the location of weapon caches. A very few or the very fortunate.
Over the few short months, fighting had degenerated into hand-to-hand combat, except those with skills with bows and other technologies. Soon, towns became walled enclosures. Streets became ganglands but wholesale slaughter was only an arm's reach away.
Then, as always some rose to positions of uneasy authority, kept in place by the larger numbers of fighting men and women armed with knives, axes and handmade spears but all desiring the acquisition of the gun.
Some grew to position because of their ability to broker deals and supply to those with items to trade or sell.
The Traffickers arose from the debris. The dealers, The profiteers and the sly.
Hawthorn was one of the those who rose. He appeared out of the smoke and damage with a hidden strong hold, filled with food, clean water and resources to be trafficked. With the natural world, outraged at her treatment, punishment came to her disobedient children mankind, with the sweating times, and freezing times. Colossal shifts in weather patterns had brought ice bound winter months and extreme heatwaves of droughts. Nature punished the survivors for their recklessness. Currently in the throes of a heatwave, the streets stank from open sewers and the struggle of people.
Hawthorn, in his late forties, lean and hard was able to furnish much needed resources to the largest of the gangs and the two competing warlords, Of course, he took what they had in trade; jewellery, gold but also flesh. As in all times of strife, flesh was the commodity of choice. Strong backs for labour and soft flesh for sex.
Hawthorn was no different, he traded for all. He traded in the segregated streets and the barricaded towns and the open subsistence farms.
In the Black Flag regions, formerly the towns of east Hertfordshire, Hawthorn made his frequent visits, to meet with Marshall, the Black Flag Warlord. In the old county offices, the roof only partly repaired, Marshall sat on the battered wooden throne with a half-naked young girl on his lap, His hands fondling her small breasts.
"I need more than that you have, Hawthorn." Marshall shouted, causing the young girl to whimper with fear, it was clear that if the warlord's mood didn't improve, she would bear the brunt of his anger later.
"You asked for axe heads, knives, and medicine. I have what you asked for." Despite the heat, Hawthorn stood in his usual black leather gear, formally used by bikers, when bikes could be fuelled but such days were long gone. Only horses had survived the tumult of the time. Hawthorn kept a stable in his stronghold to equip his guard and to carry his wears across land, when unable to transport via waterways.
"Not enough!" Marshall stood up, the girl slipped off his lap and scuttled away.
Hawthorn was not intimidated by Marshall. He had his two bodyguards, armed with both bow and axe. But Hawthorn also wore a matt finished automatic pistol at his side, He was untouchable. Marshall knew it and desired the means of his protection and moreover Marshall hated being in debt to this man, but could do little, at the moment.
"You have only half of the cost of my wears. I expect you to grant a reaping, so I can cover my costs." Hawthorn knew the enormity of his request, but the Black Flag lands had been hard pressed of late from their rivals, Red Spike and other upstart gangs that had dared to take territory and flesh. Four of his people, food and other items had been stolen away in raids, over the last two months. Marshall wanted to exact a measure of revenge from the closest gang, possibly take their territory from them. To accomplish this, he would need weapons and Hawthorn would furnish those now.
"A reaping? How long?" Marshall asked, his calm returning.
"Four days at least. I must recoup my losses. Your people can observe, but at a distance. " Hawthorn stood and gave a curt bow, a mere show of respect for a man he detested.
"You can stay in my streets, this night?" Marshall half asked, expecting the usual cautious response. He looked around for the slip of a girl who had escaped him earlier.
"Outside, with my guard." Hawthorn stated curtly and exited. He would not place his head in the lion's mouth. He would take his leave and prepare for the morning to come.
A reaping was the usual way to recoup losses on a trading mission. Warlords and gangs were always in need of the essentials of life, but also medicines, recovered from the old world. Food and water were always short, as production had yet to re-established. The reaping was a necessary evil, endured by people who stayed within the streets run by gangs or cadres. Hawthorn had long since accepted the world as it was. He had suppliers that needed to be paid off too. Marshall would be willing to allow Hawthorn to make off with some items, hoarded by his people. He would tolerate the loss of some of his men and women too. Hawthorn was widely known to hire out women in his brothels and so it was expected that Marshall would accept some of his people would be appropriated over the next few days, but the acquisition of new axe heads and knives would easily compensate him as he planned to move in on and subsequently remove one of the gangs, taking their territory, their food and their women.
The next day, Hawthorn and his two guards began to comb the rubbish strewn derelict streets. They had mounted up and rode their horses into the confines of the town, under Black Flag control. Six axe bearing men from Marshall's camp followed the trio, as Hawthorn would occasionally stop, dismount and peer into the hovels. The reaping was a negotiation as much as a trade. Desperate families would trade sons and daughters for a supply of food, water and other essentials. Hawthorn would have his new stock sent to his caravan outside the streets, until he was ready to make his wayward route back to his holdfast, in the wild areas beyond the streets. On the last day, he found himself recognising an area of the older town, newly taken by Marshall and his willing collection of thugs. Six months ago, the houses and buildings were well maintained, now, rooves were damaged, doors held in place with crude barricades. The air reeked of wood fires, for heating water, food and amateur medical procedures. All in six months, mankind was been thrown to the dark ages again.
Pausing on a downhill, Hawthorn signalled to his guards to rest, as he glanced across to a row of houses, that held his attention.
"Kay?" He whispered to himself. A memory, he had thought forgotten was brought to his mind. Hawthorn walked over to the middle house in a row. A light was revealed as filthy curtains were shuffled. Someone was inside. As he stepped forwards, others came out for domiciles, a collection of men and women emerged with bundles of goods to trade, or a son or daughter to surrender.
"See to them." Hawthorn turned and waved a hand to his guards, who also dismounted and pulled up the pack horse. A reaping was part of life to the survivors, even those with enough to eat and drink still needed medicines, that Hawthorn, and others like him, had gleaned from the abandoned pharmacists before the time of the street gangs. Hawthorn walked to the green door, almost in a trance. Kay had been the love that he lost, and he had brown bitter with that loss. When the streets rose from the dust of government, he had been sly enough to gather resources secretly. In the months that followed, he had hidden large caches of tradable goods, found men that would guard him, for the price. Hawthorn had discovered a knack for survival.
As order broke down, police deserted the streets and violence reigned. Peter Hawthorn, a former teacher had foreseen the coming lawlessness and set out to survive it and even come by a little profit on the way. Settling away from the towns, in an abandoned amusement park, he squirreled away as much as he could. Then acquiring a cache of firearms, and more importantly ammunition, from one of the last police armed vehicles. He began to trade valuables with the survivors of the breakdown in law and order.
Of course, there were other things of value and those without gold, or jewels were asked to pay with their bodies. Hawthorn remembered the pathetic collection of refugees that sought him out.
On a warm, but rain-streaked day, Hawthorn had seen them. From his vantage point, they gathered at the heel of the road and rang the bell that he had erected for trading groups. He never allowed them to approach his hold-fast, despite his invulnerability of barricades and firearms. As he approached, Hawthorn saw the crowd of young and old, mainly women holding dishevelled children.
"Who has trade?" Hawthorn called out.
A woman with rain slicked hair stepped forward, " We ned food, water and some of us are sick. We need medicines." Hawthorn regarded the speaker, if she was but fed and washed, she would be almost beautiful. Beauty was rare in the days of the streets.
"These items I possess. But I'll not give them away. What is your trade?" Hawthorn repeated. In these days, he was alone, but with the police side-arm and the repeating shot gun- he was an army.
"I will be your trade." The woman stepped forward again, her voice tired and pleading. She offered her only value.
"Set your people across the way," Hawthorn indicated. We will negotiate the price."
